There are a handful of tropes that keep dogging the South Asian diaspora dining scene. One of the biggest is the pursuit of authenticity, as if there was only one way to make a mutton biryani, one way to make a pulao, one way to make a dhansak, pinned into a particular period in time and thereafter left untouched.
The other is the idea that curry is a dish that somehow exists only in the Western sphere, that no such thing exists in India.
The truth of course is far more nuanced than that. The word ‘curry’ has been used by the West (most notably the UK) to congeal a vast cornucopia of Indian dishes that range from saag paneer to pulao. ‘Popping out for a curry’ is now shorthand for eating at an Indian restaurant, a shorthand that flattens the immense sophistication and variety of Indian food. This Western ossification is incontrovertible, and it makes complete sense for a person of Indian origin to reject the term outright as a Western invention. Because in one sense, it is.
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The bedrock of an East Indian chicken khudd curry comes from the bottle masala (a pre-mixed masala that is made of 30 different spices), bolstered with dried or grated coconut.
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K.T. Achaya’s explanation for this English usurpation of the term curry has been the one largely memorialized across culinary discourse: “The meat dishes cooked with pepper were called kari in Tamil, a word now used in English as curry,” he writes in the The Story of Our Food, one of the most seminal texts in the history of Indian food, and one oft quoted in food writing literature in India.
On the other hand, the word might have extended back to the Portuguese occupation of India. Gaspar Correa, who accompanied the famous Vasco da Gama on his gory voyages, used the term ‘caril’ in 1503. The word appeared again in 1623 in the writings of Pietro del Valle, who travelled extensively along India’s western coast. In The Travels of Peter Della Valle, Sirnamed The Traveller, he wrote about caril as “a name which in India they give to certain Broths made with Butter, the Pulp of Indian Nuts (instead of which, in our Countries Almond Milk may be us’d, being equally good, and of the same virtue) and all sorts of Spices, particularly, Cardamoms and Ginger, (which we use but little) besides herbs, fruits, and a thousand other condiments.”
Whichever origin story you might choose, curry is a very real, very specific type of dish, made with protein or vegetables sunk in spiced gravy, halfway between a stew and a soup and eaten with rice, flatbreads, or leavened breads.
Many different Indian communities have their own versions of curry, each of which hew to the climates and geographies of their region. The Pandi (pork) curry of the Kodava community of Karnataka for examples, gains its complex flavor from the triumphant marriage of peppercorns and kachumpuli, an ink-dark vinegar drawn from the fruit of a tree that grows in the state. Similarly, the Western coast of India is thick with coconut trees; naturally enough, many of these curries are anchored in ground or milked coconut. Meanwhile, an Odisha-stye curry is made with seafood and potato, the gravy thinned to a light ras.
An Odisha-style prawn curry is thinner than say, a Goan curry. Image (above) courtesy: Author’s own. Cover image courtesy: Pexels / Robert Borges
Even within the western coast, there are differences. For instance, the bedrock of an East Indian chicken khudd curry comes from the bottle masala (a pre-mixed masala that is made of about 30 different spices), bolstered with dried or grated coconut. A burnished orange Goan curry (xitt kodi), on the other hand, might eschew chicken for fish simmered in a pool of coconut milk. The curry of the Parsis, similarly burnished, is girded by poppy seeds and gram flour for heft, its sourness from tomatoes and tamarind rather than the more popular coastal fruit, kokum.
And even within the Parsi community, there are various types of curries – fiery red, vivacious green (girded by coriander and green chiles) and even the wildly decadent 100-almond curry, an almost-unheard of treat. Across Parsi and Goan restaurants, the bestselling dishes always include – you guessed it – the curry.
All this is to say that in attempting to reject colonial culinary impositions, we risk the erasure of the very traditions that we are attempting to reclaim. Curry can be a colonial inheritance as well as a living tradition, an Orientalist shorthand that elides variety, and a dish that expresses it. The task, then, is not to banish curry from our vocabulary, but to restore to it the specificity it has lost: to talk about the depth of a Pandi curry, the coconut-rich gravies of the Konkan coast, the emollience of a Parsi curry, and all the innumerable variations that refuse to be folded into a single definition.
In recent times, the modern Indian art market has been on a high, with top prices offered for several Indian artists at Saffronart, Pundole’s, and Sotheby’s. Many of these artists belonged to the Bombay Progressive Artists’ Group, while some belonged to the Baroda group. An S.H. Raza painting sold for a record-breaking price of nearly ₹45 crore, and two bidders, Shankh Mitra and Kiran Nadar, fought a fierce battle for two of F.N. Souza’s works. All these auctions resulted in ‘white glove’ sales, a term for an auction in which every offered lot finds a buyer.
Such remarkable developments call for a moment to reckon with the movements and styles that have emerged in the history of Indian art. Following India’s independence in 1947, as a new state sought to define sovereignty on its own terms, a group of artists in Bombay decided the time was ripe to envision a new India. The name ‘Progressive Artists’ Group’ was inspired by the Progressive Writers’ Association of the 1930s, which tried to challenge traditional and orthodox thinking through literature. The Progressives envisioned a modernity that wasn’t dominated by religious dogma, and they sought to celebrate the plurality of the Indian nation. In doing so, they challenged the traditions that governed the artistic world at the time. Many of these artists attended the Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy School of Art, popularly known as the JJ School of Art. Here are five artists from the group you may have heard of and, if you haven’t, should know about.
Image Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
Maqbool Fida Husain
Arguably one of the most famous painters in India, M.F. Husain was also a hugely controversial figure in the world of Indian art. A primary source of Husain’s inspiration was Indian mythology, the epics—Ramayana and Mahabharata—and religious iconographies. Traditional folk art and temple structures were reinterpreted in his work, and he was often hailed as the ‘Picasso of India’. Besides paintings, he also directed a handful of films such as Meenaxi: A Tale of Three Cities and Gaja Gamini. The well-known Hindi film actor, Madhuri Dixit, was the lead actor in the latter production and was also his muse on several occasions. One can find many of Husain’s original paintings in her home.
While growing up in a small town in Maharashtra, Husain was surrounded by horses and other animals, and as a result of being influenced by the majestic grace of the horses, they became a central theme in his work. They are often depicted in motion, drawn with bold strokes and a palette of solid colours that sought to capture their energy and vitality. In 2006, Husain left India because he was subjected to death threats, and criminal lawsuits had been filed against him over his depiction of Hindu deities. In 2010, he took up the citizenship of Qatar, where a museum has been dedicated to his art. There, one can view some of his works, such as Arab Astronomy, a series of paintings on Mother Teresa, and Doll’sWedding, which dates back to 1950.
Image Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
Francis Newton Souza
Francis Newton Souza was born in Goa and received his education in Mumbai and London. He developed a rather raw visual style of painting that was defined by bold black outlines, and distorted figures. He did not shy away from engaging with taboo subjects either — he sought to expose eroticism, human frailty and religious dogma.
Souza’s method of painting merged the sacred with the profane, challenging conventional aesthetics by painting striking portraits and landscapes. His son, Francis Patrick Souza stated in an interview that his father was ‘quite an impassioned man who had heartfelt feelings about numerous world situations, events and people.’ These feelings may or may not have been felt by other artists of his time, but they made themselves clear in Souza’s works.
Image Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
Krishnaji Howlaji Ara
The art critic, Nissim Ezekiel stated that Ara was the first contemporary Indian painter who used female nude bodies as subjects for his compositions. He also worked with human figures and still life subjects. Born in 1914, in a town near Secunderabad, Krishnaji Howlaji Ara lost his mother at a young age. He ran away to Bombay when he was a child and worked odd jobs — as a car cleaner for a Japanese firm, and as domestic help for a European lady. Ara devoted his spare time to painting. Unlike his colleagues in the Progressive Artists’ Group, he was a self-taught artist, and over the years became the recipient of some major recognitions. In 1944, he was awarded the Governor’s Prize, and in 1952, a Bombay Art Society Gold Medal.
Krishnaji Howlaji Ara was the founder and secretary of the Artists’ Aid Centre in Bombay, which was created to provide a support system for artists who needed help — in the form of grants, mentoring, and even a space where they could hold exhibitions. Some of his most famous paintings include Still Life With Fish, Deccan Dancers, and The Breakfast Table.
Image Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
Akbar Padamsee
Akbar Padamsee was born in an affluent family that hailed from the Kutch region of Gujarat. In his formative years, he would copy the images he would see in the Illustrated Weekly, an English-language weekly magazine which had a successful run for over a century – from 1880 to 1993. Padamsee worked with a variety of media—from watercolours, to oil paintings, sculptures, printmaking and photography. He also concentrated on a few subjects: such as the depictions of Jesus Christ, heads, couples, still-life paintings, metascapes and mirror images. He was in particular obsessed with depicting the human face.
Following his graduation from JJ School of Art, Padamsee moved to Paris. There, he was influenced by artists such as Georges Rouault and André Breton. He also had to defend his work against ‘obscenity charges’ against two of his paintings that were displayed in his first solo exhibition held at the Jehangir Art Gallery in Mumbai. Following Padamsee’s return to Mumbai, he sought to gradually eliminate colours from his work, while painting only using different shades of grey.
Image Courtesy: S. H. Raza / Wikimedia Commons
Sayed Haider Raza
Sayed Haider Raza was born and raised in Madhya Pradesh, and he moved first to Nagpur to study art. Subsequently, he enrolled in the JJ School of Art. Raza was known for his abstract works characterized by concentric circles and geometric patterns, which have at times been compared to the paintings of the American Abstractionist, Frank Stella, whose works Raza admired in the early 1960s. For him, the Tantric practices in Hinduism and Buddhism were a source of inspiration. In many of his landscapes, Raza has often painted scenes that look otherworldly, at times combining the landscapes of France with colours and aesthetics that are typically associated with India.
He has held numerous solo shows in galleries across the world, and has had his works included in international exhibitions, including at the Royal Academy of Arts in London. Today, some of his paintings can be found at the Piramal Museum of Art in Mumbai.
True silence outdoors is as rare as it is inside, especially in a place like Mumbai, fizzing with people and traffic and movement. Even in the very rare instance of there being no road or aircraft noise, there are the susurrations of trees, leaves, grasses, birds, insects — the sounds of life in the process of living. These are the sounds that are probably most endangered and least listened to. It isn’t that we can’t hear them; it’s just that, so often, they’re hidden by the white noise of our own thoughts.
And yet, Mumbai has that one element that is never too far from you wherever you go – the sea, fringing the city. 9, the patter of the bhel wala and the pani puri wala and the cold drink wala. A sea-salty celebration of the city.
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At its very start, in June or perhaps July, a sudden cool wind rushes in through the windows, signaling the beginning of the first downpour of the season. A sudden susurration of leaves. That perennial raucous Mumbai cry of the crow stills. The city hushes. It waits.
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But Mumbai is never silent. Even deep in the night, the churning air-conditioners shudder and thrum. Beyond, there are the sounds of shunting trains, a midnight volley of barks, the yowl of a hungry cat, the continuous rumble of the road, the da-dunk of a loose manhole cover as a car rides over it. In the distance, the gong of an old church bell, although this grows rarer and rarer, the tinny sounds of a party floating over the buildings.
The rumble of the early morning bus wakes the city. The slow exhalation of a truck as it brakes, the squeal of its tires. A klaxon of impatient horns. A local train chortles past. The gentle urgency of the pigeon, the rare chirp of the sparrow as it hops onto your sill. A crow cocks its head and caws at the kitchen window, calling for its breakfast. The egg vendor pedals past on his bicycle, bell clinking, the pao vendor sends up his unmistakeable call, the fisherwoman makes her rounds. Dawn is seeping into day. A plane whooshes overhead, helicopters go chup-chup-chup.
A city’s soundscape is as fluid and varying as a landscape. It is even more seasonal, because the migratory birds come and go, the rain swooshes and cascades and thrums, the call of the koyal rents the air just before the rain, at Ganesh Chaturthi, a snaking curlicue of devotees dances their way down the road accompanied by loudspeakers blasting music.
But this is a different city in the monsoon. At its very start, in June or perhaps July, a sudden cool wind rushes in through the windows, signaling the beginning of the first downpour of the season. A sudden susurration of leaves. That perennial raucous Mumbai cry of the crow stills. The city hushes. It waits. Then suddenly, a drumming on the roof, silver torrents of water washing the world.
And then there is the call to prayer. The azaan, singing out, waking the faithful. Often, bhajans played slicing the air, while trails of disco bands drum their way down roads at the very hint of a celebration, the clanguor rising to a crescendo at festival time. Diwali comes around, and the city is mantled with smoke and fumes, the air rent with a cascade of crackers.
And then, and then, come Christmas, depending on where in the city you live, the crescendo of a choir singing in the building compound, the gaggle of a crowd released from Mass, colored lights twinkling. Until New Year, when the night sky lights up again with firecrackers and the year is made new again.
Synagogues and Chabad houses — do we associate institutions like these with the idea of India? At one point of time, the country was home to a sizable population of Jewish people who had settled down in different parts of India. They could be put into three categories: the Baghdadi Jew community, Kochi Jews, and Bene Israelis, but there were others too. One can find Mizo and Kuki tribes in Manipur who are called the Bnei Menashe, and trace their origins to the ‘Ten Lost Tribes’– groups of people exiled from their homes in West Asia.
In recent years, the numbers of the community have dwindled significantly, as the Jewish people have migrated to other parts of the world. While synagogues are places for worship, Chabad houses are centers where Jewish people congregate for the purpose of disseminating Judaism, usually run by a Chabad couple. These sites might now grant access to only a select few people, or remain shut. But one doesn’t necessarily need to pay a visit to them in order to understand how they are important, both historically and socially.
Paradesi Synagogue, Kochi
The Paradesi Synagogue, Kochi
According to some sources, the first Jews came to the Malabar Coast during the 1st Century BCE, settling down in an ancient port city called Muziris (in the Kodungallur region of Kerala). This is the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth, built in 1568 by Samuel Castiel, David Belila, Efrahim Sala and Joseph Levi. It is named ‘Paradesi’ after the Malayalam word for foreigner. In 1662, the synagogue was destroyed by Portuguese forces, but then rebuilt the next year.
Magen David Synagogue, Kolkata
The Magen David Synagogue, Kolkata
Kolkata is home to three synagogues: the Neveh Shalom Synagogue (the oldest in the city), the Magen David Synagogue and the Beth-El Synagogue. The Magen David Synagogue was built in 1884 by Elias David Joseph Ezra, who, like Mumbai’s David Sassoon, was a Baghdadi Jew. Beyond its grand red-brick façade and clock tower, the interior of the synagogue displays pillars carved out of marble, ornate chandeliers and Hebrew inscriptions. The synagogue is an important reminder of the economic and cultural prominence of the Jewish community in colonial Calcutta. Although the Jewish population continues to dwindle, the synagogue thrives through a legacy of interfaith harmony, as generations of Muslim caretakers have faithfully maintained and guarded the space.
Knesset Eliyahoo Synagogue, Mumbai
The Knesset Eliyahoo Synagogue, Mumbai
The Knesset Eliyahoo Synagogue is one of South Mumbai’s most well-known architectural treasures. It has also been called the ‘Blue Synagogue’ because of the colours used on the façade. Although its exterior has now been restored to its original white colour with blue detailing, the nickname remains in use. This synagogue continues to be an active house of prayer and a symbol of Mumbai’s rich Baghdadi Jewish legacy. It was established in 1884 by Jacob Elias Sassoon in memory of his father, Eliyahoo David Sassoon, the son of David Sassoon.
While learning about the Knesset Eliyahoo Synagogue, it is also important to note the history of the Sassoon family, and particularly of David Sassoon. Arriving in the 1830s from Baghdad in Ottoman Iraq, he established a vast mercantile empire spanning cotton, silk, and tea, transforming Mumbai into a crucial hub of international trade. The family funded iconic institutions, including the David Sassoon Library, the Sassoon Docks, Victoria Jubilee Technical Institute, and the Knesset Eliyahoo synagogue itself.
Magen Abraham Synagogue, Ahmedabad
The Magen Abraham Synagogue, Ahmedabad
The Magen Abraham Synagogue happens to be the only synagogue in the city of Ahmedabad — a surviving marker of Gujarat’s Jewish heritage. It emerged from the Bene Israel community’s migration from the Konkan coast and Maharashtra into Gujarat. By the mid-19th century, Ahmedabad’s Jewish congregation had formed around a small prayer hall tied to Dr. Abraham Erulkar, and after his son Dr. Solomon Abraham Erulkar helped expand it with a larger hall in 1906, the foundation stone of the present synagogue was laid in October 1933.
The synagogue was designed by architects Ellis Abraham Bhinjekar and Daniel Samson, also members of the Bene Israel community. Magen Abraham translates to ‘The Shield of Abraham’. It’s built in a style that has been classified as Indo-Judaic Art Deco, with European architectural influences, and is a structure that incorporates Grecian columns, stained-glass windows, marble floors, and a women’s gallery. It’s said to represent both Jewish traditions and the modernism that was characteristic of Ahmedabad during the inter-war period.
Judah Hyam Synagogue, New Delhi
The Judah Hyam Synagogue, New Delhi
It is said that many visitors to the Judah Hyam synagogue in New Delhi come through the embassies — which means that although the Jewish population in India is akin to a ‘drop in the ocean’, each year this place sees a footfall of nearly 20,000 visitors. Dr. Judah Hyam Masilkar, born in 1862, was a community and social worker of the Pune Bene Israel community. The synagogue that was named after him was constructed in 1956. According to the caretaker of this synagogue, this is the only place of worship for Jews across the entirety of North India. For more than a quarter of a century, Rabbi Malekar, the current rabbi, has overseen the sanctuary and fostered interfaith outreach. To keep services active despite shifting demographics, he conducts Friday Shabbat prayers whenever ten Jewish individuals are present, regardless of gender, thereby waiving the traditional requirement for ten adult males.
A Night Out in London withPriyam Sharma, Founder & Editorial Director, The Moment
3 pm: Tonight’s plan
I’m back in London, and a few friends and I decide on one of our old favourites: dinner, a play and drinks afterwards. We’re seeing To Kill a Mockingbird at Wyndham’s Theatre, so we’re making a night of it around Chinatown.
What I’m wearing: If I’m taking the Tube and walking at either end, I’m wearing flats. Heels can go in my bag if I want them later. What I rarely wear around London anymore is precious jewellery. With the rise in mobile phone theft and other petty street crime over the last few years, I’ve become much more careful about what I have visibly on me when I’m moving around the city.
Phone, keys, Tube card and charger go inside. Always the charger. I’m slightly neurotic about having a charged phone, something that dates back to the terrorist attacks in London and Paris between 2015 and 2017. Those years left me with a lasting unease about being caught somewhere without a working phone. Even now, however unlikely the circumstances, I never want to find myself unable to call someone.
6 pm: Heading into town
I check the Transport for London app for delays and take the Tube into central London. It’s generally the quickest way to get into the West End, and I’ve been going to theatres and cinemas on my own for years, particularly matinees.
We meet in Chinatown for Cantonese before the play. At this point, getting home later isn’t really on my mind. It’s early, Chinatown is packed, I’m with friends, and we need to be at Wyndham’s in time for the performance.
Image courtesy: Pexels /Maxed.RAW
7 pm: Wyndham’s Theatre
Once I’m inside, my attention shifts entirely to the play. There is one thing I do automatically in crowded places, though. I register where the exits are and take in what’s happening around me. I don’t consciously think about why I’m doing it. It’s a habit I picked up years ago and never quite lost.
10 pm:Opium Bar
After the play, we head to Opium, one of my favourite places in Chinatown, a hidden cocktail bar above Gerrard Street fashioned after a 1920s Shanghai speakeasy.
This is roughly when my thinking begins to shift. How late are we staying? How long will the Tube take? Will I need to change lines? How much walking is there at the other end? London in summer feels easier because it stays light so late. Winter, when it can be dark by four in the afternoon, feels very different.
00:00 midnight:Heading back
By the time I leave, I’m still happy to take the Tube, but I’m more aware of what is happening around me. I choose a carriage with plenty of people in it and tend to notice whether there are other women around and whether the people near me seem sober. I don’t consciously make a checklist of these things. They’re decisions I make almost instinctively.
My phone habits have changed too. When I come out of the station, I check anything I need to check and put my phone away. If I need to use it on the street, I’ll stop somewhere rather than walk with it in my hand, often with my back against a wall. It’s one of those small behaviours I’ve picked up in response to phone theft in London without really thinking about how much I’ve changed the way I move around the city.
If it’s particularly late, I’m tired or the journey home involves too many changes or a long walk, I’ll check the price of an Uber. Being able to spend £20 or £25 on a car because I would rather not take public transport at that hour obviously gives me a choice that another woman having exactly the same night may not have.
I’ve also become much more conscious of what those fares cost since spending more time in Mumbai, where getting a car home is considerably less expensive.
12:15 am: The last seven minutes
I come out of the station with about a seven-minute walk to where I’m staying. At night, it probably takes me six.
I take the main road rather than the darker side streets and I walk more quickly than I would during the day. I never wear headphones at that hour, my phone stays in my bag, and I’m very aware of who is around me and who might be walking behind me. I don’t linger or allow myself to become distracted. If I’m walking with someone else, I notice how much of that vigilance disappears.
12:25 am: Reached Home
Once I’m through the door, I can finally relax.
The interesting thing is that I still feel fundamentally free in London. I go out alone, wear what I want and take public transport without giving much thought to whether I can get myself somewhere.
What changes is the journey back. Once the play is over and the evening starts moving towards home, a different set of calculations quietly begin. How late is it? Which Tube am I taking? Who is in the carriage? Where is my phone? How far do I have to walk? Should I get a car instead?
None of these decisions feels particularly significant on its own. I’ve made them for so long that they simply feel like part of going out at night.
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By the time I leave, I’m still happy to take the Tube, but I’m more aware of what is happening around me. I choose a carriage with plenty of people in it and tend to notice whether there are other women around and whether the people near me seem sober.
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A Night Out in Mumbai with Meher Mirza, Senior Editor, The Moment
3 pm (three weeks ago):
Let’s be real. I live in Mumbai. There are no last-minute plans here. If it isn’t inked into my diary at least three weeks ago, it isn’t happening. Getting four friends together in one room at the same time is a task nigh impossible. Nonetheless, we persist.
The Plan: Dinner at BandraBorn at 8:30 pm, then drinks at Idoru after. I love BandraBorn for its vivacity and its Goan/East Indian inspired menu – who could resist Grandmother Fanny’s Prawn Dish with its East Indian bottle masala and dried mango accoutrements? I love Idoru for the complete opposite reason – for its delicate Japanese-inspired cocktails.
6 pm: Home
As the most absurdly punctual person I know, I have already showered, and I am ready to leave. My outfit for the night is a long denim skirt and a sleeveless red top, with a stole to mantle around myself for when I return home. I ponder changing from my sloppy everyday canvas bag into something slightly less shabby, then decide against it. Nobody really dresses up in Mumbai, unless they’re from Delhi. Yes, I said what I said.
Besides, the advantage is that everything I need – phone, wallet, house keys, pepper spray – is all inside. I will never leave my house without my phone, and I will check, over and over again, that it is charged to at least 80%. Also, I will not wear heels or expensive jewellery if I am not getting picked up and dropped to my doorstep by a family member or a friend. On the other hand, I never wear heels or jewellery anyway, so perhaps this is a moot point.
7:30 pm: On My Way
I set off, assuming Mumbai traffic would stretch my journey to an hour. At this time, my mind is bent on calculations around the traffic situation in Bandra, rather than my safety. The city is heaving with cars and people and I think quickly of alternate routes and check Google maps obsessively. I instinctively tighten my shawl around me, as I flag down a black-and-yellow taxi, and bend down to offer directions to the driver. In absolutely any car or taxi, I am conscious of where I sit; ideally, diagonally behind the driver, so I am not in direct view of his mirror. I check that the door lock is working from the inside. This, again, is an instinctive checklist that I follow no matter where in the world I am. The shawl continues cloaking my shoulders till I arrive.
The taxi isn’t air-conditioned, so I envisage arriving in a puddle of sweat.
8:30 pm:BandraBorn
I have arrived in a puddle of sweat.
Image courtesy: Pexels / KeithLobo
10:30 pm: Idoru
The three of us (one cancels at the last minute) scramble into an auto rickshaw and go to Idoru. I am only one drink down at this time, and with my friends, so my defences (shawl) drop. The one thing I never do is to let go of my sloppy sling bag. The strap will always stay on my shoulder, and the bag will always stay on my lap, no matter where in the world I travel to. This has become so ingrained, it is subconscious.The one time I slid it behind my back was on an Italian bus, and that trip did not end well.
12:30 pm: The Way Home
Giggling stops, and we whip out our phones to consult the time. We have missed the last local train for the night, so we all call Ubers. As soon as I get into the cab, the easy camaraderie of the evening slips away. I am hyper alert now, making sure we stick to the roads I know. I have already shared my cab details with my friends and vice versa. The shawl is wrapped tighter than ever around me, and since I have exhausted my Uber balance, I keep the final amount ready in cash. I check multiple times that my bag is tightly zipped shut, and nothing has fallen out.
The entire way home, friends keep messaging to ask where I am. Depending on how late it is, I make pretend phone calls to various male members in my circle, telling them loudly and clearly where I am at all times, and describing various details of my taxi. There is no question of my wearing earphones or listening to music. These things are so instinctive, I don’t even think about them. This is Mumbai, and I have never felt anything less than safe in my city, but I have had far too many unfortunate incidents around the world to take a chance.
1 am: The Last Five Minutes
The taxi overshoots my house, and I have to walk back to my building. At this time, I am hyper alert about my surroundings, and walk briskly, almost at a run, to my gate. I get a friendly, reassuring nod from my guard, and the gates clang behind me. My shoulders fall, relaxed finally. The only indication I have as to how tightly I was holding myself the whole way home
South Asian fashion is gaining increasing visibility on the global stage. From the runways of fashion capitals such as Paris and Milan to celebrity sightings on red carpets, the distinct craftsmanship and vibrant color palettes used in South Asian clothing are increasingly finding expression in collections by design houses in the West.
At times, this has raised concerns around cultural appropriation, representation, and a failure to credit the artisans whose heritage inspires these collections. The South Asian diaspora finds itself in a position that oscillates between the place of their origin and the land they live in. These communities often navigate identities, belonging, and cultural preservation while being far away from home. For some members of the diaspora, living closer to where many Western fashion houses operate has provided an opportunity to raise questions of accountability and advocate for the proper attribution of cultural influences. Now, amidst this, there’s one creative phenomenon that has become more commonplace than ever: the art of upcycling the sari.
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Independent diaspora designers have also explored more playful and inventive ways of turning saris into blazers, slip dresses, corsets, hats, and streetwear jackets, even mini skirts with embellishments.
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Repurposing old saris is by no means a novel concept in the country — where several generations of women have transformed the six-yard drape into blankets and quilts — but it’s slightly different when it comes to the diaspora. The practice has turned into a means of expressing one’s identity, championing the cause of sustainable fashion, while bridging the gap between one’s heritage and contemporary Western aesthetics. The sari sometimes stops being a mere article of clothing. It is a material object that carries memories, linked to the women in one’s family. For second- and third-generation members of the diaspora, inheriting a sari can be an emotional experience. However, there is the question of feasibility — in colder climates, fast-paced environments, and workplaces in Western cities, wearing a sari on a regular basis might simply be an impractical affair.
But there is a method to work around it: rather than letting these precious textiles gather dust at the bottom of a closet, or treating them with museum-like reverence (worn only during weddings), many are opting for the middle ground: transforming the saris into other articles of clothing, most notably jackets.
In India, the practice of upcycling fabrics and garments has, in some cases, been taken up by contemporary slow-fashion labels, reflecting an emphasis on reusing materials and reducing waste. Local tailors are also given saris to transform them into anarkalis, lehengas, and other forms of festive wear for younger family members.
However, independent diaspora designers have also explored more playful and inventive ways of turning saris into blazers, slip dresses, corsets, hats, and streetwear jackets, even mini skirts with embellishments. As a result, we have brands such as Desi Espresso, which works on creating custom-made ‘minis’ from a range of saris that are offered to the customer. Their founders, Prerna and Simran, position Desi Espresso as a brand that is equally at home in Toronto and New Delhi. Similarly, another brand, ‘I Was a Sari’, positions itself as a brand that oscillates between Mumbai and Milan.
Image courtesy: Pexels / UdayAhir
The practice of upcycling saris also fits well with global sustainability initiatives decrying the sale and consumption of fast fashion. Mainstream fashion is an extremely polluting industry, using synthetic materials that aren’t eco-friendly. In contrast, the more traditional Indian textile ecosystem are inherently sustainable, using handloom weaves (as opposed to machines), natural dyes, and durable, biodegradable fibers.
The term ‘decolonization’ has also taken off in spaces that aren’t considered to be traditionally academic, now extending into the world of fashion. Established Western ideas of fashion and style are increasingly being supplemented by traditions and aesthetics from other parts of the world. Indian design and craftsmanship have also received greater visibility in global fashion conversations, including through debates such as the Prada–Kolhapuri controversy.
A new wave of diaspora-owned sustainable brands has come to the forefront, and labels founded by South Asian creatives are shipping upcycled sari pieces worldwide. At the end of the day, the upcycled sari in the diaspora becomes more than a clever styling hack or an aesthetic trend. It is a reflection of the diasporic condition itself: by taking pieces of the past, respecting their origin, shaping, and sewing them into something novel and functional; all the while retaining its uniqueness. At times, the best way to honor a legacy is to wear it as tomorrow comes.
As mist rolls off the peaks of Shillong, a schoolboy tosses and turns in his bed. The moonlight peeks through the wood-paned windows, illuminating the glossy poster of Bhaichung Bhutia plastered on his wall. The droplets of rain rap on his window, a pleasant pitter-patter through the night. The tranquil milieu suddenly breaks as he wakes up, startled. The digital clock next to him reads 12:13 AM. He sighs with relief; just in time, he gets ready to witness what he and the rest of his school friends have been waiting for. It’s time for the FIFA World Cup 2026, and the Government of Meghalaya has announced a state-wide holiday for the special event.
Not just Meghalaya, but the entirety of North-East India buzzes with energy as football season comes around. Home to some of the most prolific players the country has ever seen, the eight states – Manipur, Mizoram, Sikkim, Nagaland, Assam, Arunachal Pradesh, Tripura, and Meghalaya – are the heartland of the sport in India. Tiny shops in Aizawl sell jerseys and football gear while pubs promise to stay open late into the night – even till 4 AM – for the screening of the World Cup Final. But what fuels this relationship?
Image Courtesy: Pexels / Yogendra Singh
The answer lies in the history of football in the region. Once the British took control over Assam and parts of current-day Mizoram in the 1830s, missionaries moved in, bringing along with them two kinds of divinity – Christianity and football. Thus began the illustrious chronicles of football in the region. Mizo soldiers were reintroduced to football while stationed in the outskirts of Paris during the First World War and this carried on into independent India, when Dr. Talimeren Ao of Nagaland became the first captain of independent India’s football team. Then came Bhaichung Bhutia, nicknamed the Sikkimese Sniper, who changed the face of Indian football and the North-East along with it. Bestowed with the Arjuna Award and a Padma Shri, he is lauded as the pioneer of football in India.
Football persisted in the region through tumultuous terrain, a brutal partition, and the carving of new borders through princely states and united territories. In a country where the hotter states of Madhya Pradesh and Haryana are known for wrestling and land sports and the cold-weather sports are restricted to the northernmost states, the North-Eastern states surpass geographical barriers and natural disasters to build artificial turf to stay connected to the game they love most. Renedy Singh, former midfielder and Indian professional football coach from Manipur, talks about the salvation in sport: “Football takes away the tension. Not getting tickets, not getting to school every day, dealing with a bandh every alternate day. Football is the only way Manipuris think they can be in peace.”
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Throughout the nation and the world, football has become synonymous with the North-East, and conglomerates are noticing. Reebok has returned to competitive football sponsorship in the country with NorthEast United FC, currently 4th in the Indian Super League (ISL).
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According to the 2011 census, the region holds a population of close to 46 million individuals, making up 3.78% of the total population of India. And from within this 3.78%, Mizoram and Manipur alone make up 25% of India’s premier professional male football players, as of 2021. Thus, football’s presence is undeniable. Home to competitions like the Santosh Trophy, the Rajmata Jijabai Trophy, the Bordoloi Trophy, and many others, the region keeps the sport alive and breathing. Dedicated sports academies such as the Tashi Namgyal Academy in Sikkim, the Sports Authority of India (SAI), and the Tata Football Academy further concretize this enthusiasm.
This isn’t just a call from inside the house. Throughout the nation and the world, football has become synonymous with the North-East, and conglomerates are noticing. Reebok has returned to competitive football sponsorship in the country with NorthEast United FC, currently 4th in the Indian Super League (ISL). And yet, India keeps falling off the board of global championships. As hopes of qualifying for the World Cup are dashed, public frustration is turning toward the government for failing to adequately support and promote sport in the country.
In September 2023, the All India Football Federation (AIFF) called for the men’s and women’s football teams to participate in the Hangzhou Asian Games, but they were excluded for failure to meet the Sports Ministry’s criteria of being ranked among the top 8 teams in Asia. However, with the addition of senior players and the stellar winning performance of the national team in the Intercontinental Cup and the South Asian Football Federation (SAFF) cup, the Ministry relaxed its rules and the teams were able to participate. Regrettably, similar accommodations could not be made for the 2026 Asian Games, despite both the men’s and women’s teams qualifying for the continental showpiece; once again due to the Ministry’s criteria.
Image Courtesy: Pexels / Jomon Kollannoor
In spite of these lapses, the states of Meghalaya, Manipur, and Mizoram still shine as crown jewels of football in India (with the support of the other five states). In a part of the country where, as football journalist/commentator Novy Kapadia says, “neither Bollywood nor cricket has reached”, football shines. It is up to institutions to match the talent.
The North-East of India functions under a sort of mononym, with its geography becoming its unquestioned defining feature. The flattening of 262,179 square kilometres of land into a singular face erases the internal identities of the people. But amidst this, football becomes a united collective identity for the people themselves. Larsing Ming Sawyan, the owner of Shillong Lajong FC (the region’s first professional football club from Meghalaya) believes that football can reframe the reductionary perspective. His belief is that his football club was the “first real pan-North-Eastern initiative…that has looked at uniting the entire region”.
Yet, as with any identity shared amongst several people, differing ideologies emerge. Robert Romawia Royte, owner of the Aizawl Football Club, understands the role football has played in bringing the region to the forefront of Indian sports. However, he differs from Larsing in matters of identity: “The feeling for Mizo identity, for Manipuri identity, Khasi identity, Naga identity is much stronger than the feeling for a common North-East…in the context, let us say, of football.” In a way, it is these disparate points of view that make the North-East such a force of nature. Contexts are ever evolving, and yet they play football as they always have been. It is for the rest of us to understand whether that defines them, or defines India for depending on one region to carry the emblem of a global sport.
In Babita Singh Reporting, a film by Ambiecka Pandit, Baby, an ASI working for the Bhopal Police, is chased by two German Shepherds. She panics and flees. While doing so, she collides into a wire fence and her dupatta gets caught. As a result, she is left bleeding from her palms, and her torso while her kurta is torn down the side. She realizes that she has been injured and starts walking with a limp. This is perhaps how it plays out in real life — a single collision with a wire fence suffices to cause a major injury, and slow down a person.
Yet in films and shows, heroes are expected to somersault and get back on their feet each time they receive a blow. Not only that, they are fighting off whole hordes of the main villain’s minions, while barely landing a scratch on their bodies. Now, imagine the same lens of realism being applied to the human faces presented in Indian cinema. Do these faces bring you close to reality or widen your distance from it?
The well-known actor Nawazuddin Siddiqui had once pointed out in an interview with the film critic, Anupama Chopra, that while people might attribute to him the quality of being an unconventional-looking actor, his face was indeed the convention as far as the average face in India goes. He has acted in films such as The Lunchbox, Kahaani, and Bajrangi Bhaijaan. The other actors, who are playing lead roles and are appointed as heroes, are in fact the ones who are far from the average, and they stand out in comparison to the others they are surrounded by.
The actor Nimisha Sajayan, who played the role of Babita Singh has been a target of social media users who pointed out that she doesn’t fit into the mold of the mainstream heroine. Her understated look while portraying the role of a small-town officer in Madhya Pradesh was also praised by many precisely because of her relatability. The departure from artificial beauty standards has been considered a breath of fresh air. Sajayan herself has addressed this saying that she has faced scrutiny throughout her career which has included the likes of the Malayalam language film, The Great Indian Kitchen.
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The well-known actor Nawazuddin Siddiqui had once pointed out in an interview with the film critic, Anupama Chopra, that while people might attribute to him the quality of being an unconventional-looking actor, his face was indeed the convention.
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For as long as Indian cinema, and especially Hindi language cinema has flourished, it has upheld a certain aspirational image. In order to play the role of the ‘hero’, or become a leading lady, certain characteristics would be given preference: lighter skin tones, a certain height, and in recent days the pressure of looking younger and better has grown much stronger given the fact that there are more cosmetic surgeons who can aid one in achieving that look. Having access to the best skin care regimen along with monitoring one’s diet: it really does take a village in order for the actor to maintain that polished screen image. A few unspoken rules have also been around: to have a lighter complexion means that one is a good person, worthy of desire. On the other hand, people with darker complexions were relegated to play the antagonistic roles, or exist as sidekicks.
In order to portray a character who belongs to a lower socio-economic strata, it is also fair to assume that the casting should feel believable. But what is then seen in practice is that an actor who is known for their striking looks is hired for the job. An example of that would be Hrithik Roshan who played the role of Anand Kumar in a biographical film titled ‘Super 30’. It is the story of a coach from Bihar who helped 30 poor students to crack the fiercely competitive Joint-Entrance Examinations in India. Filmmaking is also a business that insists on recovering costs and hence hiring Roshan to play the role made commercial sense, but then that came with a side of brownface—a practice that many find offensive or problematic.
Simi Garewal who portrayed the role of a tribal girl in Satyajit Ray’s Aranyer Din Ratri had her face painted to sport a complexion far darker than her own, but Garewal in other cases is known for her elegance and poise, and a polished, upper-class screen persona. The question here is this: should there be some semblance between who the person is on screen, and off it?
Image courtesy: Pexels / Shvets Production
The obsession with light skin and exceptional physical beauty did not come out of nowhere. It is ensconced in what one might refer to as the ‘colonial hangover’, or be associated with caste politics and what the markets have tried to sell us for long. Lightness of complexion was considered to be an index of privilege—a notion only amplified by companies producing cosmetic products that claimed to make people fairer by several shades.
Cinema has had its hand in reflecting this bias, by producing an assembly line of leads who did not look like the audiences buying tickets to watch the films, but like fantasy figures sharing similar physical traits. For female leads, the same standards applied, but were possibly narrower, and also the better roles were reserved for actresses who were younger. Regardless of regional authenticity, there have been many situations wherein non-native actors were cast to play the roles of local women, and even dubbed over when they could not speak the language of the film. The underlying subtext might have been this—everyday people belong in everyday stories, whereas the extraordinary feats are pulled off by the ones who adhere to beauty standards.
With the diversification of mediums through which films are disseminated to masses, and audiences acquiring a taste for newer forms of cinema that seeks to go closer to reality rather than distance themselves from it, one could make the case that the everyday-looking man and woman are now going to see themselves on the screen.
A blanket of marigolds, pleated into a garland by a vendor in a sari, her face cropped out so that only an arm and crossed leg remain. A procession of rural, traditionally dressed women, sashaying down an ancient stepwell. An old man with rumpled clothes and an ektara. A camel and its keeper posing in front of the Taj Mahal. A rural woman stepping into a blue-painted haveli.
Now consider another set of images.
A circlet of mountains crusted with icicles, a sleek red train cutting through the snow. Cottages across green, sun-dappled hills. A charming café on a city street. An ancient church girdled by autumn foliage. An elaborate Continental breakfast overlooking ancient ruins. A windmill gazing out at a field striped with tulips. A line of backpackers summiting a peak, dressed in the latest mountaineering gear.
Every one of these guidebook cover images is gorgeous. They are, in every sense of the word, cover-worthy. But they also instantly tell us something about the place, before we even turn the first page.
The first set of pictures are from India. The second set? Europe.
We’ve been trained to recognize one as ‘exotic’ beauty. The other one is simply beautiful.
And therein lies the heart of the problem. Not that the images are false (they are not), but that they are incomplete. A country almost the size of a subcontinent is being continually pancaked into a stereotype of itself – traditional, economically fragile, spiritual, chaotic, and ‘exotic’, its people meant to be put on a cover and ‘consumed’. And when this representation feels more authentic than a larger, more complex reality, that’s when the problems begin.
Ali Behdad, a prominent cultural theorist, addresses this in book Belated Travelers: Orientalism in the Age of Colonial Tourism, writing that “the Orient is again represented as a “natural” theater where the tourist can observe exotically untouched scenery, the local habits and costumes, and the exhilarating show of color…”
And India is all of those things: to deny the color, spirituality, poverty and chaos would be to deny that the sun shines in summer. But it is also far more than the spice-heaped market, the elephant thumping through the streets, the dilapidated Rajasthani havelis, the shy street vendor with the intense gaze, her sari pulled to cover her face. It is equally the music festival in the mountains of Arunachal Pradesh, the imagination-defying root bridges of Meghalaya, the vineyards of Nashik, the charming café on a busy street corner in Pune.
When these become the recurring vocabulary through which an entire country is explained, both visually and textually, they stop being observations and become clichés, shorthand for a way to explain a complicated, variegated people with an ancient history.
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When these become the recurring vocabulary through which an entire country is explained, both visually and textually, they stop being observations and become clichés.
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This shorthand has a long history that unspools back to colonial-era guidebooks such as John Murray that invited European travelers to ‘construct’ the places they described, presenting India as ruins, legends, spirituality, poverty and spectacle, thus helping to reinscribe Western ideas of cultural and economic superiority.
“The Orient was almost a European invention,” wrote Edward Said in his seminal work Orientalism, and argued that Western culture “gained in strength and identity by setting itself off against the Orient.” The West was uncomplicated, rational, forward-thinking, while the East was poor, mysterious and regressive. Thus, the traveler arrives with expectations already set in stone, assured in their superiority.
Travel media has always been the conduit through which countless people learn about other countries and cultures. It shapes their understanding of places and people, and how they should act and behave with others. And so we must wonder what happened when for centuries, the voice of the Western male white traveler was dominant, his gaze seen as the only worthy one.
